


The Smoke in His Eyes

by rhythmicroman



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood Drinking, Cannibalism, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Dogs, Drugs, Elf Culture & Customs, Fictional Religion & Theology, Green Pact, Religion, Skooma, The Green Pact, Vampire Turning, Vampires, Vampirism, based on my save, tagging for future chapters, the dragonborn is quite religious in this so feel free to leave if that makes you uncomfy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmicroman/pseuds/rhythmicroman
Summary: To a bosmer like him, to sink his teeth into a body isn't such an unfamiliar notion - but the craving for it, running through his blood like fire, burning him up from the thirst, truly is.Deririn was never the kindest elf - but now, he feels he's gone a step too far.





	The Smoke in His Eyes

“Are you alright? You look ill.”

The bosmer nodded, his hood falling over his eyes – he thanked the deities above that this town hadn’t had much trouble with the Brotherhood, as not a single one of the inn’s customers had commented on his choice in armour. The cape he’d haphazardly pulled over the shoulders swayed slightly in the wind of an opened door, pinned down slightly at the top by a beautifully-carved bow and a leather quiver overflowing with arrows.

Recently, people had begun worrying about him – and he already knew why. Back in Valenwood, stories of the vampire curse spread amongst youths like wildfire, and he’d heard that only the most merciless of assassins were doomed with such a fate; and supposed he counted, by now, with all the men he had slain. His arrows pierced their skulls and he collected his payment – there were no questions, there was no reasoning, only a few hours of scaling buildings until he had a decent angle.

Vigilance, his loyal mutt (who he’d paid for in a moment of softness and kept for the extra help), nudged his shins quietly under the table, but with no reaction.

The young barkeeper stared him down for a moment, before sighing, and going back to wiping down a tankard with an old cloth. “I had heard word of a dragonborn elf with a heart of ice, and yet never had anticipated quite this level of stoicism.” A moment of silence. “If you’re to eat at my inn, at least allow me your name, dragonborn.”

Slowly, the elf’s eyes dragged upwards, towards the barkeeper’s face – his right eye was a dark, shiny black, void of any colour and yet still chillingly electric, whilst the other, decorated with blue paint and rough skin, sat unseen beneath a dirty black eyepatch. The patch in question looked older than its wearer, and there was no doubt in their mind that he’d snatched it from some dungeon on his travels – where else would an assassin get such an accessory?

He cleared his throat quietly before speaking. “Deririn Dornvale,” his voice came out rough and lightly accented, lifted in a faux-friendliness that was easily pierced, “though most call me dragonborn, and you seem to be no different.”

He stood in another slow movement, chocolate-brown hair falling over his shoulders beneath his hood, lifted his weapon from where he’d lay it – a long blade, shining with fresh blood and tinted green with hastily-applied poison – and dropped a few pennies of gold on the counter, gesturing to the stairwell.

The barkeeper blinked for a moment. “Ah, yes, by the end of the hall, it shan’t be locked-“

“Thank you, stranger. May Y’ffre watch over you.”

A quiet click of the tongue to Vigilance, and he was already disappearing up the stairs, a dark figure against the bright lights of the inn.


End file.
